


Smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain Kangaroo

by Hope



Category: Die Hard, Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-06
Updated: 2008-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:26:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's son pays a surprise visit. Set after the events of DH4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain Kangaroo

**Author's Note:**

> For the [July 4 Ficathon](http://community.livejournal.com/hard4brains/51805.html), using the "outsider POV" prompt. Giant thanks to [fools_game](http://fools_game.livejournal.com) for the beta and [kphoebe](http://kphoebe.livejournal.com) for the glee and consultation. More author notes can be found [here](http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1347931.html)

There's no doorbell. Jack pauses, lets his bag slip the rest of the way off his shoulder before lifting his arm, rapping his knuckles hard enough that they smart against the solid wood. He bows his head, listening for a response from inside, half-hoping there isn't one―there's a ninety-nine percent chance that his Dad's on duty right now, and Jack's perfectly fine with that. Means that he gets a little longer to sort out what he's going to say to the man he hasn't seen for―shit, _months_. Probably not since Christmas, if he thinks about it.

And, okay, he's willing to admit right now that he feels a little guilty about that himself―it's not like Dad hasn't _invited_ him up to stay with him in Brooklyn a bunch of times. But, well... Anyway. Having Jack sitting outside the door of his apartment all day will be good enough guilt-trip fodder for Jack to feel not so bad about all those months between December and September. And missing all the shit that happened in between.

His chest seizes up a little when he hears movement from inside, guilty conscience automatically and rapidly disposing of his plans and leaving only a trace of nervousness in his gut. Because okay, the plan was manipulative and childish, but what the hell, he'll _always_ be treated like a child around his dad, so why not make the most of it? He hefts his heavy bag a little in one hand, swinging down by his ankles, and carefully lets it aid the slump of his shoulders just so.

The door opens and there's a guy standing there, a guy who isn't Jack's dad. They stare at each other blankly for a moment, both kind of expectantly.

"Uh..." Jack begins. "This apartment 4A?"

The guy's gripping the edge of the open door loosely, arm propped up as he stands there. He blinks at Jack through the black rectangles of his glasses. "Yeah?"

"I... Sorry." For the first time Jack feels a flutter of something in his belly, something other than the semi-adrenalized nervousness caused by imagining the stupid scenarios of wheedling his dad into helping him. Now he's starting to sweat in honest because seriously, if Dad isn't at the return address that Jack's last birthday-card-with-a-fifty came from, then where the hell is he? Why _isn't_ he here? Has he up and moved and just decided not to tell Jack? If he can't even be fucked telling Jack where he lives, why the hell would he give a fuck about Jack's shitty problems? Jack could turn up on his doorstep no matter where it was and Dad wouldn't even care that Jack had no where else to stay.

"Sorry," he says again; the guy's still staring at him blankly. "I was looking for my Dad, I thought this was his address so I walked up here from the subway, I have a map right here and he, uh―" He realizes that he's running at the mouth, and to a complete stranger, no less. Embarrassed, Jack lets his gaze drop away from the guy's shifting expression. The guy's tee-shirt is droopy at the neck where the elastic's gone, neon-green print half-faded into the gray of a once-black tee-shirt reading ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US. His feet are bare below a pair of ratty jeans. "―He must have moved. Sorry."

The guy in the doorway just looks kind of confused, now. Jack glances away again, hefts his bag back up on his shoulder, turns to go.

"Um, uh―wait."

Jack looks back, only a couple of steps away. The guy's squinting, knee cocked a little as he leans in the doorway, closer to Jack. "McClane?" he says. "John McClane, your dad?"

Jack feels his brow tighten a little. "Yeah."

The guy points at him. "You're Jack," he says.

"Yeah," Jack says, and frowns, squinting right back at the guy who grins open-mouthed and lowers his hands to actually _clap_ a couple of times.

"I knew it," he says. "Family resemblance. Though, again―_way_ more hair." He says the last as if to himself, lets go of the door and waves his hands around his head vaguely, as if to illustrate. He backs up, holding the door open with his body and his hand to the side, directing Jack in. "Your Dad still lives here. Though he's uh, he's not here right now, but you can come on in, if you want?" The end of it's a question, as if he's just realized himself that Jack doesn't actually know him from Adam. "I'm Matt, by the way." He sticks his hand out toward Jack this time, who takes it automatically, returning a firm, brief grip. "Your Dad's, uh, your Dad and I are roomies."

The statement finishes off abruptly, and Jack feels his brow draw a little, but Matt's looking down and away as Jack passes him, shuffling through the doorway. He's never been to his dad's apartment, though he feels slightly reassured to discover that aside from the Random Guy living in it, it's pretty much exactly how he'd imagined. Breakfast bar separating a sparse kitchen from an open living space filled with a table cluttered with papers, empty plastic grocery bags, and a laptop trailing wires across the floor to the nearest socket; surrounded by a chairs likewise covered with domestic debris. A big old black tube TV with ambitions of reaching flat-screen proportions squats against a far wall, facing the saggy brown sofa that Jack remembers from his childhood, resting his face against leather the texture of butter while watching morning cartoons.

Jack deposits his bag at the base of the breakfast bar. Matt eyes it. "You uh, staying then? John, um, your dad didn't say anything, though I guess he might have thought it would be okay to just, uh, put you in the other room, or..."

Matt's clearly rambling, and Jack feels a little self-conscious. He's got the script for this conversation with his dad, even though they haven't run through it for a long time; though that wouldn't necessarily have a detrimental affect this time. But with someone else?

"I didn't call," he says eventually. "I can find a hotel or something, if it's not okay..." He can't really find a hotel, but _god_ this is awkward.

Matt just shakes his head, then just purses his lips and squints his eyes a little as if in thought. "All my stuff is in the spare room," he says at length, almost hesitantly, looking at Jack sideways. "Can you settle for the sofa?"

"Sure." Jack nudges his duffel with his foot in agreement. "Be just like coming back home," he says, and grins, feeling it tip his mouth crookedly.

Matt blinks, then smiles back, kind of weirdly, and Jack's not sure if the joke―lame as it was―got through and Matt just doesn't find it amusing, but the smile seems genuine rather than faked or unimpressed, leaving Jack a little off kilter.

"Um," Matt says, looking away again, hand rubbing the back of his neck as he looks around the room, then starts shoving the clutter around on the table, clearing a chair. "John finishes his shift at around six, usually," he says, then gestures to the laptop. "I work from home."

* * *

John's cell vibrates against his thigh. When he digs it out of his pocket, the tinny tinkle of its ring becomes audible. He glances at the caller ID, grins, flips it open. "Hey."

"Dad?" John halts abruptly at the cross light, turns his back against the roar of the traffic as if his shoulders can block out the noise. "It's Jack."

"Jack?" His eyebrows go up, and he feels abruptly disoriented. Kowalski glances at him, her expression questioning. He waves her off.

"Yeah, you know. Your son?" Jack's voice, hollow through the connection, sounds more nervous than sarcastic.

"Jesus, kid, I know," John says, feeling an involuntary stab of guilt. He rubs his fingers against his forehead, then his palm over the crown of his head. "Just didn't expect to hear from you, is all. It's been what, almost a year?" The cross light flashes to green and John glances to automatically check where Kowalski is as he steps out, hardly having to pay any attention to where he's going as the crowd pulls him along. "You're in Brooklyn?" He's struck by a thought, remembering the caller ID. "Is, uh... How did you get in?"

"Your roomie let me in," Jack says. "Rent isn't that bad, is it? Surely not on a detective's wage?" He's clearly trying to make a joke, and John's more than willing to pay it. He flexes his empty hand, muscles tense, and adjusts his sweaty grip on the cell.

"You'd be surprised," John says shortly, using the old _don't mess with me_ tone that can't help but be tinged with affection when talking to his kids. Jack seems to get it, though, even the affectionate part, because he just snorts quietly in response. _Please._ John finds himself mentally begging. _Do _not_ ask any more questions._

Luckily, Jack seems to have other things on his mind. Kowalski holds open the door for John to step into the diner, and it's quiet at this hour, just the low mumble of the waitstaff chatting in the kitchen. In the sudden lack of street noise John can hear the silence in the apartment at Jack's end. He wonders where Matt is.

"Is it... Matt said I could take the sofa. I should have called, I know, but..." Jack gives another huff of laughter, and John can see right through it. He waits for Jack to keep talking though, incriminate himself further or come clean. "I can just stay for a couple of days, or whatever." His voice echoes a little; he must be standing by the big window behind the TV, the only place in the apartment empty enough to have acoustics.

"Jack," John says. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"

Jack's silent, or at least non-verbal; John can hear the sound of him breathing in short huffs. John glances up as the waitress comes over and eyes him; he gives her a tight smile and she pours coffee for both he and Kowalski without saying a word. "Kid, you can stay for as long as you want," he encourages, though feeling a solid lump of terror in his chest at the prospect, and jesus christ, when did his life become so _complicated_? _Probably about the time it became so _gay, his brain supplies helpfully, and he keeps his lips pressed tight. That voice might have a habit of becoming literally vocal in situations of extreme stress, but he's not quite at that stage yet. At least not with his current audience. "After all, what, you came all the way from LA to get here? Must be something pretty serious to come running to your old man." He's only half-joking.

"I'm in trouble," Jack says finally, as if John's just given him permission to.

"The kind of trouble you need to run across the other side of the country to get away from, or just the kind you need your law enforcement dad to take care of?" John asks, keeping his tone as light as it has been for the rest of the conversation. He has experience, after all. "Or both?"

"It's not that," Jack scoffs. "Well... It is. I couldn't--Mom just wouldn't understand. She'd be all _disappointed_ and crap and not believe me; she always expects the worst of me."

John says nothing. He put a flat-out ban on badmouthing Holly in front of the kids when the divorce was going through, and he's not about to start now. Sticking neutral may have been noncommittal to Holly, but sometimes when it came to his kids it was the only way to keep them around.

"And it's not like Luce is any better. They're like the freaking dynamic duo, you know how it is."

John does. He also knows that Lucy took her older sibling responsibilities more seriously than any kid he'd ever come across, and when it came down to it, his two kids would band together in the thick of it against any other foe, parent or not.

"Plus," John offers. "I doubt you would have found it as easy to crash in her dorm room, no matter the circumstances." He's not sure how to react to Jack pretty much laying out there that John's the last person on his list. Even if it isn't a surprise, it still stings.

Jack laughs a little sheepishly. "Yeah, there is that."

"So what is it? Am I string-pulling, putting you into witness protection, what?"

"It's... complicated." Jack sounds serious again, and scared. It sounds different on him older, but John can still recognize it instantly.

"Try me, kid. You can trust me. I'm a professional." He wonders if Jack's scared that John will bust him; an unsavory thought. Surely if Jack thought it was _that_ serious, he wouldn't have come to John at all. Which is reassuring, if he looks at it sideways.

"It's my frat," Jack says. Yet another thing John hadn't helped with; Holly's father had been in the KOK fraternity, Jack's way in. John had spent his college years in dorms, and never wished otherwise, especially not after some of the shit he'd seen go on in those places later in his career. "It's my last year, I'm on the committee for our annual cocktail party, we did all this fundraising, and had the money in a safe, but well... It went missing."

"You want help finding it?" John doesn't ask, _Did you take it?_ even though that would be one good reason to run on over to the other side of the country. He braces himself for it anyway. "That what you came to me for?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I came here because I--I do need your help. They're blaming me. Well, the whole committee, for taking it; I just didn't know what else to do."

"Where are the other guys, aren't you figuring this out together?"

Jack makes a scoffing noise. "They're too scared their daddies aren't going to come through with their internships." Which would explain why Jack's not at Holly's. "Plus, I knew... I figured you'd be able to help me out." Or maybe not entirely explain. John might just be useful for _something_.

"Sure, kid," John says. "I got it."

* * *

Matt's got his head in the fridge when Jack comes up behind him. He can hear Jack's hesitant footsteps but waits until Jack says his name before he turns around. Jack looks slightly less freaked out, but also slightly more embarrassed. Like a miniature John when Matt trumps him on something and he knows it. Matt finds it kind of adorable, and fiercely represses what John tends to call his stupid face. Jack holds out the phone. "He wants to talk to you."

"Hello?" Matt says into the receiver of the cordless, keeping his expression bland as Jack steps back and half-turns away.

"Hello." John's voice is muted and a little weary, but it translates into a wryness that still conveys John's complete lack of being fazed. By anything. "I know babysitting wasn't part of the job description." He's not exactly apologizing. Of course not. John McClane never apologizes.

"Are you kidding me? He looks just like you, only twenty years younger." Matt smiles at Jack, who's glanced back to watch him. "I recognized him right away."

"Thirty years," John grumbles, his unimpressed tone revealing that he knows exactly what Matt is up to. "Don't get any ideas."

"Nothing to worry about there, I told him he was free to take the sofa." He's still smiling, enjoying himself thoroughly even though John clearly is not. Somehow, that makes it even more entertaining.

"Can I talk to you in private?"

"Sure." Jack has wandered back toward the sofa, is trying to find out how to turn the TV on. The remote is a multi-purpose Frankenstinian thing that Matt has soldered together; it'll take Jack a while to find it in plain sight, as it's not exactly recognizable. Matt goes into the bathroom, lowers his voice a little. "He's not on the run, is he?" he says, tone turning serious.

John sighs. "Not exactly. Look, I--" he says, and Matt says, "Do you--" at the same time, and they both drop off into a slightly-awkward silence.

Matt pulls at the chapped skin on his lower lip with his teeth and listens to John breathe.

"Awkward," Matt says as John says "I wanted you to meet--" and they both stop again and laugh.

"I wish he'd called first," John states firmly, and Matt huffs another brief laugh.

"Why, so I could go out of town for the weekend? Or so we could plan a surprise coming out party?"

John gives an exasperated sigh, clearly unamused, but otherwise doesn't interject.

"It'd be great, you could invite all your work buddies and I could invite my parents, Lucy could come too and hell, why not Holly? She'd fly across the country for it. We could decorate the apartment. I'm thinking rainbow streamers, Jell-O molds shaped like--"

"Would you shut up already? Jesus fucking christ. I knew it would come down to decorating eventually." Matt smirks, hearing the rumble of humor behind John's tough-guy tone. "Don't get out your rainbow ribbons just yet, okay? Let's just... just play it cool."

"Cool as in cold shower cool? As in frigid? As in sleeping on a street corner, in the snow--"

"Cool as in we're roomies," John cuts him off. "You know how goddamn loud that bed is."

"Oh sure," Matt retorts. "It's the bed that's loud."

"Cut it out," John says. "For fuck's sake, you can't even behave on the phone."

"Relax, he's not even in the same room." Matt can hear the low murmur of the TV from the other side of the wall now, indicating that Jack's figured out the remote. Clearly he takes after his old man; though John prefers to put up a mulish show when it comes to learning new technology, he's got a brain that can just figure out how things _work_ pretty much immediately. He and Matt might not have a lot in common, but there is always that.

"It's not gonna be forever," John says it like it's a hardship for him, not like he's trying to appease Matt. Because of course he wouldn't do _that_.

"Your kid needs you, I get it. Is there, uh. What kind of trouble is he in? Anything I can do?" He leaves it vague deliberately. More often than not John feigns ignorance and disinterest in the whole hacking thing, but he's a detective for fuck's sake, and Matt _knows_ what the law thinks about that kind of infringement. Sure, there were all the rabbits that Matt pulled out of hats during the fire sale, but there was also all the shit Gabriel pulled.

"Fraternity trouble. Framing trouble," John says. "Money."

"There are bank records," Matt hazards. "They're always good. And emails. People like to talk in emails. Arrange things."

"I know they do, kid," John says tiredly, but no more, so...

"And he's not here to report anything officially, is he? This is off the books for you. So I could just go in and take a look, not to--"

John cuts him off. "Okay, whatever you gotta do," he says. "But I don't wanna hear about."

"Okay." Matt says; the conversation is clearly over, and he has no problem with that. "Hey, pick up the script for my contacts, willya?"

"What am I, senile?" John says, tone lighter, and with the tell-tale jocularity of trying to charm his way through a lie. "I already got 'em, right here." There's the crisp retort of paper being shaken, and a woman's voice says sharply, _Hey, quit it!_

Matt purses his lips, forcing back a smile. "That's not a drug store bag, asshole, it's clearly a newspaper. Connie's newspaper, if I'm not mistaken."

"So what now, you got super hearing to go with the super brain? That what you get from listening to shitty loud music these days?"

"It's to make up for the shitty eyesight," Matt says. He looks up into the mirror. His face looks stupid. "Seriously, don't forget my contacts, asshole."

"I won't," John pretends to sound seriously put-upon.

"And tell Connie she's a foxy lady. I'd like to take her to dinner sometime." He waggles his eyebrows in the mirror, listening as John relays the message.

"She says to get fucked."

Matt laughs again. "See you later?"

"Yeah, after nine. I got this thing."

"Okay. Hey, your kid got a bedtime?"

"Screw you," John laughs.

"Right back atcha," Matt says, then presses the button to end the call.

* * *

It's after ten by the time John slides his key into the lock, and when he pushes the door open the dim light in the apartment is soothingly warm in comparison to the fluorescents in the complex's hallway. The door to the microwave is open, tiny golden bulb the only light gleaming in the kitchen, and paler light drifts from the small hallway that holds the door to the bathroom and the spare room.

Matt's head pops up from the sofa's high back, expression unreadable as the light and movement from the screen silhouettes him. The second head--Jack's--is slower to turn, and the sound and motion stops abruptly as he hits pause on Matt's science project of a remote. John blinks quickly as his eyes adjust.

"Hey," Matt says.

"Hey," John replies, just as lightly, examining Matt's face briefly. Matt's smiling, at least.

John turns to Jack as he stands, makes his way slowly around the edge of the sofa. Jack takes a deep breath as he walks, chest puffing out before he stills a foot or two from John. They eye each other.

"Dad," Jack says, brief greeting.

"Junior," John says, risking a good-natured smirk. "Long time no see."

Jack rolls his eyes, but meets John's embrace half-way. After a few moments and a couple of manly back-slaps they break apart again, Jack rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. John resists the automatic urge to do the same, reluctant to draw attention to the gesture's inherited nature, but Matt's off the sofa and walking by them, into the kitchen, so John watches him instead. "There's Chinese," Matt says, looking up and back at John. "Leftovers?"

John glances at Jack briefly, then ambles back toward the kitchen, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. Matt's already tipping the contents of a takeout box into a bowl, releasing the pungent scent of ginger. Jack stops a little short of the other corner of the bar, hands tucked in his underarms. John sneaks glances at him, pretends he doesn't notice Jack doing the same.

He feels a little breathless at how familiar Jack looks. It's not quite so much like looking into a mirror at his twenty-one year old self; Jack's got some of Holly in the hint of delicateness his features have, and though he hadn't really had any significant height to inherit anyway, he still looks... like a man. Not like a child. An adult, surely something that's been portended for some time now, but to John... it comes as a surprise. Not so much that Jack's changed, but that John's missed so much of it.

John clears his throat, turns away. Matt's facing the microwave, face intent but relaxed as he watches the bowl of leftovers turn, eyes half-lidded as if the microwave's internal light is giving off heat and he's basking in it. John grabs one of the boxes on the bar and rustles the packaging, takes out a cracker and bites into it noisily. Matt turns to look at him, expression still cat-like.

"You guys watching a movie or something?"John says with a mouthful, gesturing back toward the TV. There are a couple of guys frozen in motion on the screen, both in black suits with skinny ties, one covered in blood.

"Pulp Fiction," Jack says.

"You wouldn't like it," Matt tells John. "Except maybe for the music."

John's heard of it. "Got enough violence in real life without needing to watch it in a movie, doncha think?" he says. "Didn't Gabriel give you enough excitement to last you, I don't know, a couple years at least?"

Matt cocks his head, and John recognizes the unmistakable tell. Matt leans in over the bench, over the bar so his face is right up close to John's. John tenses, aware of Jack still in his periphery, tries to prevent the stillness from being obvious.

This close, Matt's gaze has to shift back and forth just to look John in directly the eyes. "Yeah," he says, low and gruff. His breath puffs warm against John's face and John narrows his eyes in return. "But Ted's dead, baby. Ted's dead."

Jack gives a burst of surprised laughter and Matt turns away, clearly pleased with himself. He grins at Jack before the microwave dings. John shakes his head, not getting the joke but nonetheless relieved that Jack did, and forces a wry smile on to his face. He rubs his hand over his jaw and chin as if to push back the flush of shock at the unexpected endearment, even though it was delivered in an obviously adopted tone; husky and unlike Matt's typical range between relaxed grumble and higher-pitched excitement.

Matt sets the steaming bowl in front of John in return, steals miniature spear of corn quickly with his fingers and just as quickly pops it into his mouth. John scowls at him and Matt beams, rests his ass on the bench opposite.

Jack's eased himself onto a stool next to John, shoulders propped on the bar. "Wait," he says, scrutinizing John's face intently. "_Thomas_ Gabriel? That's--" Jack pauses for a moment, and John chews slowly while he watches the expressions play over his son's face. "You're Matt Farrell," Jack says, looking to Matt, then back to John. "That's how you two met."

John makes a grunt of affirmation, not pausing from his food, trying not to feel anything in response to the relief in Jack's tone.

* * *

"He's all tuckered out," Matt says in an exaggerated whisper, closing the door to the bedroom softly, softly behind him. "The little trooper."

John's messing with his clothes still, clearly fidgeting as he turns his shirt the right-side-out again, shakes his jeans out, though he does take the time to flip Matt the bird.

Matt's toes curl in his mismatched socks. McClane relaxed, muscles lax and skin softer, looser, can be just as hot as McClane turned on or worked up. It just hits him sometimes, unexpected but not.

"You know, pretending that he's a kid isn't going to make _me_ any younger," John says. When he's loud his voice booms deeper, but whispering pitches it into a tenor .

Matt huffs and rolls his eyes, not even dignifying it with an answer, especially as he's not about to tell John that it's less about making him feel younger and more about Matt feeling older. Because for fuck's sake, Jack's practically _Matt's age_ and he's John's _kid_ and Matt has just spent half the day hanging out with him watching Tarantino films and playing Resident Evil and that isn't exactly part of his and John's hanging-out repertoire. But Matt's not freaking out. He's not, not even the tiniest amount. And just as long a he can keep his babble internal, John will believe that too.

Matt dumps his own armful of clothes on the chair by the door, John's sneakers kicked beneath it. The apartment's too small for two people who aren't fucking, bedrooms pretty fucking tiny with one less-than-adequate built-in-robe in the 'master bedroom'. Most of Matt's stuff is still stashed in the spare room with all his gear. Which is no problem, when you're free to stumble around semi-naked of a morning. John looks at the pile of clothes, looks back at Matt questioningly. Matt shrugs. "For tomorrow morning. In case--" He drops his shoulders, leaves it unfinished. No need to spell it out to the detective.

He wants to touch John. Matt feels deprived of a sudden, unused to an evening without the pleasure of doing so whenever he wants to. He feels like he's traveled a huge distance just to get here; body clock all messed up when it's used to being alone and working away during the day, not late at night while he waits for John's son to fall asleep in the next room.

He sidles up behind John, slides his hands around and against John's belly, feeling it jump, loose skin tightening. John's just wearing and shorts and an undershirt which rucks up beneath Matt's palms. John turns around. When they kiss the wet sound of their mouths is loud, and the accelerating huff of their breathing. John's stubble rasps across Matt's jaw, and he can feel John's shifting gaze with the scrape of his eyelashes over Matt's cheek. Matt pulls away, opens his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," John rumbles. "Just..." He gestures. "Bed's loud."

Sex tends to mellow them both out; there's another thing they have in common. Their bodies are still pressed together from the kiss and there is no doubt that John is rapidly approaching turned-on, but he's clearly agitated, too; sentences shortening and tone getting more gruff when he's preoccupied or pissed off or scared. Matt figures it's a combination of all of the above this time, and lets his arms slung around John's waist slip lower until the sides of his hands are resting against the top of John's ass. "Jesus, McClane," he says, aiming for affectionate chiding but inadvertently coming out with a hint of genuine frustration. "It's not like it's your old man in the next room."

If anything, John's expression closes off more, less subtle in its shifts when Matt is this close. "We don't have to wrestle on it," Matt says, tipping his head toward the bed. He makes his voice a low growl, as quiet as a whisper, but not as gentle. He wraps his hands around the front of the narrow shoulders of John's undershirt, hauls on them as if they're handles. "As much as I would like to smack you down right now."

"Ha ha," John says, tough-guy tone coming back out to play. His body slouches back against Matt's hold on him. "Don't make me laugh. I could snap you--" He snaps his fingers. "--Like a twig, little man."

"You're just all dirty talk, aren't you," Matt gets out before John slams him with another kiss, Matt only taking a moment to fight back with tongue and teeth. It's kind of good that Matt's sense of humor doesn't translate very well in the bedroom, because it means the John's always trying to shut him up in creative ways.

They part again, breathing harder, still no closer to the bed. Matt lets go of John and sits, then slides under the comforter, gestures to John. "Come on then, I've got a better idea."

He pulls the comforter up and over their heads, air in the dark space beneath filling quickly with the sound and heat of their breathing. John has turned out the light and Matt finds him by touch, hand reaching John's shoulder first then sliding down his arm to wrist; John's turns in his and Matt smiles in the dark when John's fingers return his grip, then he pulls John's hand over, wriggling forward until he can press it against his hard cock, thin fabric of his shorts hardly a barrier to the sensation. John huffs, catches on fast and fumbles with Matt's fly; breathes out again more harshly when Matt returns the favor.

They quickly find a rhythm, jerking each other off at a leisurely but not insufficient pace, and it's tame but still so fucking hot. John's so close but nearly invisible in the dark under the covers and there's not enough oxygen for Matt to gasp in properly. Matt's still got his shorts on, and sweat sticks them to his skin, makes it almost uncomfortable, and the movement of his arm tangles and tugs the damp hair under his arms too. It's different; touching so little of John at once, and Matt's eyes are closed even though he can't see anything anyway, savoring the feel of John's cock in his hand, scorching heat and sleek skin.

John's hand around Matt's cock is more intense than ever too, the skin of John's fingers rough and his damp palm pulling against the sensitive skin. Matt's hips jerk and the bed's frame gives a faint, questioning groan. Matt freezes but John doesn't stop, just makes a shushing noise and grinds his forehead against Matt's.

Matt shivers, laughs soundlessly against John's mouth, feels it when John licks his own lips. "Fuck, this reminds me of high school," Matt confesses.

"You what?"

"Jeez, McClane, don't sound so fucking scandalized." Matt's back curves of its own volition, pushing him closer to John's body, further into John's fist. "High school, you know? Experimentation? Complete lack of stamina? Trying to keep quiet while Mom's watching 7th Heaven in the next room?" Inappropriate, maybe, but this is so inappropriate in so many ways that Matt's stopped fucking caring a long time ago.

John groans. "Please, God," he mutters. "Make him shut up already."

Matt's too breathless to laugh at this point, but too delighted not to respond, so he shoves his chin forward and kisses John's mouth again. Sloppily, no skill involved whatsoever, but still: it gets his point across.

* * *

Jack wakes with the smell of leather still infusing the last strains of his dreams. He squints, pulls his face sluggishly away from bit of the sofa where the sheet has slipped down and he's been drooling directly onto the leather. It's not a puddle so much as a slimy patch. He grimaces, re-arranges his head onto the pillow and lets his eyes slip closed again.

The sofa still makes a comfortable bed even though he's about twice as big as he was last time he slept on it. The sound of movement elsewhere in the apartment too is familiar, an old comfort in the soft sound of considerate footsteps, of his dad's hushed voice.

Jack's drifting again when a burst of sound makes his eyes jerk open. Abruptly awake, he blinks hard a few times, his brain struggling to catch up; it was the clatter of something being dropped or falling, and when he focuses further he can hear the sound of amusement from further back in kitchen, hushed laughter.

Jack catches a glimpse of movement in his field of vision and shifts his gaze from the blurry middle-distance of the pale blinds lidding the window behind to the television, huge dim screen looming right in front of him. There's enough light coming in that he can see the opaque reflection of the apartment in the TV's glass. The huge lump of the sofa and Jack's own tangled, sleepy mass dominates it, but beyond he can see the distorted reflection of the kitchen; white block of the fridge, dark line of the bar and the figures of his dad and Matt moving around.

When he focuses, Jack can match the unintelligible murmur of their voices to their gestures. Matt's standing but propped up on his elbows on the bar, Dad is fussing over something on the kitchen bench immediately opposite. Matt's shoulders are shaking and Jack can still hear the sound of his hushed laughter; he watches his dad shake his head, reach out and give Matt's chest a shove. Matt stumbles back, movement clearly exaggerated, then walks around the bar and into the kitchen proper, standing next to and deliberately bumping shoulders with Jack's dad.

Jack's heart slows the pounding of his sudden waking and his body relaxes comfortably back into the embrace of the sofa. He drowsily watches the figures move around on the television screen. His Dad's wearing a suit, half-dressed with his tie slung around his neck; he'd told Jack last night that he had an early meeting with the DA before a hearing started at 9. Matt looks to still be in the same clothes he slept in but he moves around the kitchen as if in tandem with John; they murmur to each other as they both drink coffee, take turns at the toaster.

Jack rouses himself a little when he sees his dad step out, look toward the living area where Jack lies. Clearly Dad ends up deciding Jack's both asleep and not worth waking for a goodbye, and Jack's totally okay with it; still feeling sleepy and vulnerable lying there, not armored up enough with wakefulness for another conversation with his father right now. Dad reaches for his jacket where it's slung over the back of a chair, shrugs it on in front of the apartment's front door. It's on the opposite side of the apartment from the TV backlit by the big window; there's a light on above it where the early daylight doesn't yet illuminate the space, making the reflection there on the television screen warm and solid.

Matt steps into the same pool of light, movements loose and easy. Jack's dad turns to him, still shrugging the jacket into place, and Matt sets his coffee cup down on the table by the door, picks up John's keys and hands them to him. John takes them, slips them in the pocket of his slacks, pats at the breasts of the jacket. Matt's hands reach up, fiddle with the just-tied knot of John's tie.

Jack blinks, swallows. Matt's hands move from John's neck and around to his shoulders, sliding back until his elbows rest against the base of John's neck, hands clasped loosely together behind John's head. John doesn't move. Jack doesn't move. He's wide awake now, and suddenly it seems an effort to remain quiet; his breath loud against the fold of the blankets, his eyelashes scraping against the pillow. There's no way they can see him watching them, but nonetheless Jack feels exposed. He holds his breath when Dad shuffles a little closer than Matt's easing has already brought them. They're talking, but are too far away for Jack to hear, now; too far away for him to read their expressions in the hazy reflection.

John's hand rises to Matt's face, carefully removes his glasses then comes to rest at Matt's waist. Their heads come together briefly, Matt's arms dropping to fold against the back of John's neck. It's brief. The kiss is brief. _Because that's what it was, a kiss,_ the voice in Jack's head reiterates, in a tone more of earnest befuddlement than its usual sarcasm, and when Jack opens his eyes again his Dad's gone from view, Matt closing the apartment door and walking out of the TV's frame without even glancing in Jack's direction.

Because why would he look Jack's way? They both thought, assumed, that Jack was asleep; that show was not for him. Jack's brain struggles to encompass just how... how _mundane_ it was, how brief and ordinary and more intimate than if he'd walked in on them fucking, and oh god--ugh, _ugh_. Didn't need _that_ mental image. Jack hears the shower start up but doesn't feel safe to move even then, though his thoughts are running around in fast enough circles to exhaust him already.

Clearly his father and Matt are... They're... They're more than roomies. Jack's mind shies away from naming it, from labeling what he saw. Not because he's grossed out by it or anything, at least not beyond the whole never-wanting-to-know-about-your-parents'-sex-life,-_ever_ thing, but--fuck, he lives in a frat house, okay? Where _homo_ is synonymous with weak, with ineffectual, with sleazy (the bad kind) and gross (also the bad kind).

Homo is not John McClane, hardass cop and rescuer of Americans in distress. Homo is not John McClane, ex-husband of Holly Gennero and father of Jack and Lucy. Homo is not making jokes and drinking coffee, having toast for breakfast, sharing an early start before court. Fuck, if you'd asked Jack off the cuff an hour or two ago, he'd have said it wasn't even playing Resident Evil and quoting the dialogue along with Reservoir Dogs.

Jack closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the sweat in his fists curled around the scratchy blanket, the stick of the leather couch in the small of his back where his teeshirt's ridden up. When he opens his eyes again the world is still just the same; completely different.

*

His jeans from yesterday are still pooled right by the couch, he steps back into them and fishes a clean shirt from his duffel, shrugging back into his hoodie when his forearms break out in goosebumps. He rubs the cuff across his face; it still smells like airport and anxiety.

The shower has stopped a while ago; the bathroom door cracked open and dark within. Jack pushes it open the rest of the way and steps in, water seeping into his socks from the tile. He flips the light on, rubs steam off the vanity mirror and stares at himself for a moment--ridiculous bedhead, but still not receding just yet, thank god--then takes a swig of the lurid green mouthwash sitting by the basin and spits.

The door opposite the bathroom--the spare room, _Matt's_ room--is cracked open a little too and Jack takes a deep, silent breath then taps on it with his fingers, pushing it open at the same time.

The a huge bank of computer monitors is what he takes in first, then the shelves and cupboards lining the rest of the walls, the clutter of clothes draped over the little remaining furniture and cans clustered on the (ample) desk space. In the small amount of floor space left Matt's pushed his computer chair back and is looking at Jack, hair still wet from the shower, eyes wide in a way that could be construed deer-in-headlights or questioning politeness. He's not wearing glasses, and it makes his face seem bigger, less constrained in a way; but also blanker, as if the glasses were part of a personality Jack had got to know yesterday that's now been stripped away.

It's a stupid thought, and Jack's man enough to recognize that, even if he _is_ having some trouble dealing right now. "I slept okay," he says in response to Matt's question, mouth thankfully on auto-pilot while the rest of his body's still trying to catch up. There's definitely no bed in this room and Jack doesn't know where to look.

The edge of Matt's mouth tilts a little, not in a happy way, but not like he's forcing it, either. "Hey, I dug up some stuff," he says, turning his head half-way back toward the clutter of computer screens. "Check this out."

Jack leans in (_not too close_) and skims over what Matt's got pulled up on the screen he's pointing to. Then stops, slows down, reads slowly. "Holy fuck," he says, the names and numbers registering this time. "How did you get that? That's..."

"Bank statements," Matt confirms, then clicks and brings up another window. "Email account, too. Look like enough to incriminate your frat brothers?"

"Sure," Jack says, a sense of relief and self-righteous rage bubbling over the confusion, the reason he didn't relax once on the way here turning over the shock of the morning and asserting its dominance again. "Enough to know who they fucking are, too," he says. "You... You found all that... how?"

Matt shrugs, looks down at his keyboard. "You told me what college you went to, what frat. Just did some digging. It's not that hard to crack an email account, and you'd be surprised where you can get from there."

"Isn't that illegal?" Jack says. Not that he's complaining, mind; even if that shit can't hold up in court then at least he knows who it was, now, he _knows_, and if being in a frat house for the past four years has taught him anything, it's that KOK metes out its own brand of justice.

Matt's shoulders twitch again, and he grimaces a bit. "Technically yeah, but--"

"But dating a cop helps?" The question is out before he's had time to think about it, and heat rushes to Jack's face despite his wilful fight to keep his expression impassive.

Matt's not trying to look away or avoid his eyes this time, and his expression is solemn. "Sometimes," he says. "But that's not why."

Jack didn't even realize he was defending his Dad's honor until Matt's steady admission loosens the some of the tightness in his chest. Spending the day before watching cult movies and violent video games with Matt had given Jack a sense that Matt was an ally, like another one of the guys, just on the other side of the country, even if there was the residual weirdness of just what he was doing living with Jack's dad. Now it feels like Matt's not of his world at all. Right now Matt's watching him steadily, waiting for whatever Jack's going to say next, not protesting or defending anything and suddenly he seems far older than Jack than just the handful of years Jack's sure he is.

It could make him feel sheepish, but it doesn't. If anything, he feels more okay about the fact that Matt's _here_ in his dad's home than he has since Matt opened the door to him yesterday, let alone what Jack saw this morning.

He realizes Matt's still waiting for an answer. "Okay," Jack says, bobbing his head.

"Okay?" Matt's tone isn't questioning the answer, just confirming it.

Jack still doesn't know how he's going to look his dad in the eye the next time he sees him, and this just complicated a whole fucking lot of his childhood, not to mention his parents' divorce. As if that wasn't a enough of a clusterfuck already.

"Sure," he says, because it is okay, kind of. Enough that he can return Matt's grin with a patented smirk of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1347931.html


	2. Out take

It's not even 8am when he pulls out his cell phone, finds Lucy's number. She picks up after the fourth ring. "This better be fucking good."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Jack says, already grinning. "I guess some things never change."

She recognizes his voice immediately. "What, like the fact that I'll always be fucking taller than you, Pipsqueak?" Lucy likes to pretend at being classy, but when it comes down to it she grew up more tomboyish than he did, learning to cuss like a sailor from God knows where at an early age, passing the knowledge onto Jack with the solemn oath never to divulge in front of Mom and Dad. She did lots of shit like that when they were kids, stuff Jack remembers these days and wonders if it was deliberate, making such a firm partnership between the two of them, something that could withstand the crap Mom and Dad would heap on them.

Not deliberately, of course. Jack knows that now, even though he didn't really understand what was going on _then_, just had his period of teenage rebellion late in high school, when Lucy left, went to the other side of the country, left Jack for _Dad_. Left Jack with _Mom_, even. He only really started talking to her again when he left for college himself, new perspective on the whole situation once he's out of it, out of Mom's house, even if he was still in California. Lucy had no problem picking up pretty much exactly where they left off, albeit long distance. One of the many things he's grateful for, in brief moments when he tries not to think about how much she means to him. The swearing helps, in those moments.

"What the hell are you calling me for, anyway?" she continues. "Isn't it like, four AM for you? Are you drunk dialling?" He can hear her waking up, in the tone of her voice and the rustle through the speaker.

"Yeah, nice to hear your voice too," he says, mock-hurt. "I'm in New York."

"What? Why? Why didn't you tell me, you little shit?"

"I just got here yesterday," he says, not answering the question, and knowing she'll not let that go he follows it up with, "I'm at Dad's place."

She's silent for a long moment; Jack can't even hear her moving around any more. "Yeah?" she says at last, and her tone has changed almost imperceptibly, though Jack can hear the difference. "Have you, uh, met Matt?"

"Dad's roomie?" Jack says, knowing she's testing the waters and baiting her on anyway, seeing how long she can hold it.

She snorts. "That what they're calling it these days?"

Jack giggles into the phone, listening to Lucy do the same on the other end. "Oh fuck," he says at length, catching his breath though he hasn't been laughing _that_ hard. "This is so fucked up."

"No it's not," Lucy says immediately. "I'm not saying it's not _weird_, but..."

"Yeah," Jack says. "Yeah, I know." He pauses, and Lucy waits for him, knowing he's not finished. "Did Dad tell you?" He hates how weak he sounds, how hurt; wants Lucy to rib him for it so he can just write it off. Because he doesn't feel like that. He doesn't. It's been fucking _years_ since he's cared about what his father can give him.

"No way," Lucy says, then snorts. "It's ironic, how much like Mom he is."

"Who, Matt?" Jack says, and Lucy hoots out another laugh.

"No, _Dad_, you jackass. Remember that time, when... When I came home that Thanksgiving and brought Gwen with me?"

Jack remembered, all right. Gwen wore shitkicking boots and ratty armwarmers, had a skull that was fuzzy like a peach and a silver stud in her nose. Seeing her and Luce together made Jack realize just how much of a costume Lucy's long hair and girly clothes were really, and he felt okay about his sister in a way he hadn't since she'd hit puberty and started wearing makeup and short skirts instead of biking around with him in their little league jerseys. Gwen had been totally fucking awesome, and Mom had walked around stiffly the whole first day of the weekend like she had a stick shoved up her ass. She'd relaxed a little after Gwen helped her cook, though, fixing the best fucking made-from-scratch cranberry sauce Jack had ever eaten. He'd been kind of pissed when Lucy had brought some Ivy League jock home the next year.

"So what, Matt is Dad's 'special friend'? This is kind of different, Luce."

"No it's not," she insists. "And you didn't see them months ago when it first started, Jesus. It was like whenever I came over there I didn't know whether to hose him down or force-feed him a chill pill."

Jack makes a noise to convey how gross he finds that statement. "Too much fucking information, thanks Luce," he says.

"Sorry," she says, completely insincerely. "Can I gross you out in person? How long are you here for?"

"I don't know," Jack confesses. The reason he came has pretty much been fixed, and he should head back to California as soon as possible to do some righteous ass-kicking. But he wants to stick around.

"Come today," Lucy says. "Get Matt to drive you."

As if on cue, Matt comes out of his room - the spare room, the study - running his hand through his hair and heading for the fridge. "Hey, you wanna--" he says, then closes the fridge door again and looking at Jack directly, registering the phone in his hand. "Sorry, I, um -- never mind. I'll just--" He makes an uninterpretable gesture with both hands then turns about again, carrying a slender can.

"Is that Matt?" Lucy says, then before Jack can even answer, demands, "put him on."

Matt takes the phone when Jack hands it to him, looking confused. His expression settles to a smirk within a moment, though, and after another moment he answers whatever she's said . "Brat. Okay, fine."

When he hands the phone back to Jack, Lucy's already ended the call. Matt looks at him, gives a hesitant smile. "Looks like we're going to Rutgers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1348663.html

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain Kangaroo [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/392605) by [tinypinkmouse_podfic (tinypinkmouse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinypinkmouse/pseuds/tinypinkmouse_podfic)




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